


Touch

by CasusFere



Series: Flash Fiction [17]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Implied dubcon, Power Dynamics, implied humiliation, misuse of a generator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 07:15:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CasusFere/pseuds/CasusFere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Onslaught needs to remind himself that he's in charge. PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch

  
By the time Onslaught managed to key in the access code to the Combaticons’ quarters, his rage had cooled into something cold and hard. Frag Megatron to the Pit. He’d have his revenge. They _would_ get rid of the programming, and then he’d teach that sanctimonious fragger why he never should have screwed with the Combaticons.

Swindle looked up when he stepped in, expression flickering from bored to something that was gone to fast to identify as he took in the dents, smeared energon, and streaks of white paint. He caught Onslaught’s gaze and looked away hurriedly.

“Where are the others?” Onslaught asked, relieved to hear that his voice stayed steady.

“Blast Off’s on duty, and Brawl’s on the shooting range,” Swindle said, for once not giving him any run-around or attitude.

Onslaught smiled grimly behind his battlemask. Did he look that bad? “Vortex?” he asked.

Swindle just pointed towards the helicopter’s room.

Sprawled out comfortably on his berth with a datapad, Vortex looked up as the door slid open but didn’t bother to move. “That was locked,” he pointed out mildly. He didn’t comment on Onslaught’s appearance, but thinking he didn’t notice would be a mistake. Vortex always saw more than he let on.

“Override code,” Onslaught reminded him, half-turning to re-engage the lock.

“You need something, Ons?” Vortex asked, propping himself up.

“Yes,” Onslaught said, flexing his hand, feeling something catch inside as it moved. Vortex certainly wasn’t a medic, but his training ran parallel to a medic’s in a number of places. An interrogator who couldn’t keep their subject alive long enough to question was worthless. The fine mechanisms of the hands weren’t something one trusted the repair drones with, and Onslaught had no intention of going to the Constructicons; he’d had more than enough humiliation for one day. “I need you.”

It wasn’t until Vortex snickered that he realized exactly how that sounded. “Oh, Ons, you can have me however you want, whenever you want, and in whatever position you want,” Vortex purred, sitting up.

“You’d interface with a gravel truck if it held still long enough,” Onslaught said flatly.

There’s a dangerous light to Vortex’s optics. “Hey, least I’d be screwing it on my own terms.” He gave Onslaught’s battered frame a significant look.

Onslaught growled, stepping closer. “However I want, you say?” He reached out to grab Vortex and pull him up and off the berth. “I think I’ll take you up on that one.”

“Oh, _authoritative,_ ” Vortex said cheekily. “I love it when you get all commander-y.”

“I don’t remember asking for your input,” Onslaught said. “Mask off.”

Vortex giggled and complied, tossing it aside. “Yes _sir!_ ”

Onslaught reached up to stroke fingertips down Vortex’s bare cheek plating, watching the way Vortex’s expression twitched, obviously readying himself for the pain he was sure was coming. Unfastening his own battlemask, Onslaught leaned forward, bringing their lips together in a surprisingly gentle kiss.

He felt Vortex shift against him, seeming uncertain of where Onslaught was going with this. Fingers fluttered indecisively against his forearm, thumb sliding along his wrist. Onslaught caught the wandering hand, trapping it in an iron grip even as he deepened the kiss. He grabbed Vortex’s other hand as the helicopter start to reach for him.

“Did I give you permission to do that?” Onslaught growled when he broke off the kiss. A smirk spread across Vortex’s face, saying as clearly as words _Oh, so it’s that kind of game, is it?_

“No sir,” Vortex purred. “Won’t happen again, sir.”

“It had better not,” Onslaught said coolly, “Or you’ll be finishing out this evening scrubbing out the hanger decks with a grill brush. Alone.” His grip on Vortex’s hands tightened until the helicopter’s rotors twitched. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Vortex said.

“Good.” Onslaught loosened his grip a fraction, gently messaging Vortex’s hands, watching the way the action sent the faintest of shivers down the helicopter’s frame. Lacing his fingers through Vortex’s, he stroked the inside of each joint, Vortex’s engine revving ever-so-slightly in time to his movement.

“Turn around,” Onslaught said, releasing him, his voice low and husky. “Against the wall.”

“Yes, sir!” Vortex complied, but not without an insolent twitch of his rotors, placing his hands flush against the wall and smirking back over his shoulder at Onslaught.

Onslaught chose to not notice his attitude, instead reaching out to trail one finger from the tip of a rotor back to the hub, feeling the static charge of Vortex’s wind-funnel generator tingling against his finger. He leaned forward, nuzzling at the flat of the blade, the static charge buzzing against his bare facial plates. His glossa flicked out, tracing back up the path his finger had taken. Vortex’s fans kicked in, pulling air into his intakes in a gasp.

Smirking into the rotor, Onslaught brushed his knuckles against the outer edge of Vortex’s rotor assembly, making the helicopter shiver. He ran his thumb over the main retaining bolt, and Vortex shuddered. “Sensitive?” Onslaught asked, rubbing it. He knew it was - and the weak point of the entire assembly, the single bolt that held everything together. He slowly increased pressure until Vortex whined, fingers flexing against the wall, his entire body shivering.

Slowly, he curled his fingers under the hub, sliding the pitch control rods between his fingers, to the underside of the hub. He gently pushed against the hub as he stroked in, easing the pressure as he pulled back out.

“Frag it, Ons!” Vortex writhed, trying desperately to push back against Onslaught’s fingers and force them deeper, _harder..._

Onslaught’s hand stilled. “Is that any way to address your commanding officer?” he demanded.

Vortex whimpered, twisting under his hands but unable to make Onslaught move again. “No sir,” he whispered, vocalizer crackling static. “I’m sorry sir.”

“That’s better,” Onslaught said approvingly, and plunged his fingers in.

Vortex cried out, knees going weak, and only the hand deep in his rotor assembly kept him from falling to the floor in an undignified heap. Onslaught shoved him against the wall again, pinning him there with his free hand and an annoyed growl.

“Sorry, sir,” Vortex whispered, voice rough with static. The apology and the title, spontaneous and automatic, sent a thrill through Onslaught, soothing the pain and humiliation he’d suffered from Megatron. That arrogant fragger didn’t understand what power was. _This_ was power, and it was _his_ not Megatron’s, and couldn’t be commanded by the fragging reprogramming they’d endured.

He pushed his fingers in deeper, brushing drive shaft and tugging on the pitch controls, twisting against the wind funnel generator until the static charge thrummed through him. Vortex mewled as his fingertips touched the upper swashplate, then _scratched._

“ _Frag..._ please, sir...” Vortex whimpered, fingers clawing against the wall. “Onslaught! Please!”

The sound of his begging made Onslaught shudder, optics flickering off. _Oh frag yes..._ The movement translated through his hand, shivering against the internals of the rotor assembly and leaving Vortex writhing against him.

“Onslaught...” His voice broke, dissolving into a static-filled moan.

Pulling his hand out roughly, Onslaught yanked the helicopter around and shoved him into the berth, then followed, dragging Vortex up and into the position he wanted. Settling between his legs, Onslaught ran his palms up Vortex’s plating as the helicopter bucked under him, desperate for more contact. He bent, licking at the exposed cabling of Vortex’s neck, then biting down, just to hear him cry out.

He felt Vortex’s arms wrap around his shoulders, trying to relieve some of the pressure on his rotor assembly, but this time, he didn’t reprimand the helicopter. Instead he bit harder, fingers digging into seams, one hand reaching around to catch a rotor and twist. Vortex whimpered, burying his face in Onslaught’s shoulder and clinging tighter, hands clenching into fists at Onslaught’s back.

Onslaught sat up, a sharp tug on the rotor in his hand pulling Vortex fully into his lap, and reached for Vortex’s interface panel. It slid open at his touch, and he spent a moment tracing along the port while Vortex twitched and shuddered against him.

“Please, Onslaught...”

Letting go of the rotor, he slid his hand up the blade to the wind funnel generator mounted in the rotor assembly, wrapping his fingers tightly around it and feel the charge race down his plating. He could tell from the way Vortex gasped that the sensation wasn’t lost on him. Then he plunged a finger into the port, letting the energy from Vortex's own generator hit the conductors inside.

Vortex muffled a scream against his shoulder, his entire body jerking and writhing with the power of the sensation. The generator power built as the energy fed back through Vortex’s systems, buzzing through Onslaught’s core until he couldn’t tell it from the vibration of his engine howling.

Crying out, Vortex clawed at Onslaught's back as the generator’s output maxed out what the conductors could safely take, and kept building, overloading his systems and flowing back into Onslaught, until all he was aware of was the pure, blinding _ecstasy_ of it.

Then it was gone, as Vortex’s safety protocols kicked in, shutting down the generator and leaving them both slumped sideways on the berth.

For a long moment, the only sound was the tick of cooling engines and the soft whir of fans.

“Y’know, I actually _have_ interfaced with a gravel truck,” Vortex said suddenly, voice scratchy but cheerful, breaking the silence. “Nice tires. Rawr.”

Onslaught groaned and shoved Vortex off the berth.  



End file.
